Intermission
Every morning the curtain goes up
I open as a young man,
with frequent and worsening infirmities,
medication for blood pressure, cholesterol,
blood thinners for AFib – and coffee.
The senses are atrophying like the limbs,
I avoid any strenuous activity,
rehearse, find a seat and avoid mirrors.
New is what is important, entertaining.
The past, time, young, old, even lately,
are not issues, as youth projects itself
into the next, the space directly
in front, today’s stage.
My parents were old, now long gone,
don’t preoccupy my day any longer,
but they are visiting lately in dreams.
Jergens eases the contention of the parts,
and Visine takes the paste out, so I can see to
move out of the way of the now,
the tip of the pen – read today’s lines.
The curtain goes down, even the vibrant
need a nap, there is a faint applause
from the rear seats in the balcony,
and a reminder to take an Ambien.
(Originally published by Constellations, December ‘24)
Craig Kirchner has been nominated three times for a Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. He’s been published in Chiron Review, Fixator Press, Main Street Rag and more than 100 other journals.